


fuck it, i’m not here to judge (fuck it, i’m not here to love)

by strawb3rryshake



Series: (wednesday night interlude) [1]
Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, Pining, Sharing the same cigarette because they're definitely gay, Two bros sitting in an alleyway, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-03
Updated: 2020-09-03
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:00:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26265376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strawb3rryshake/pseuds/strawb3rryshake
Summary: ““I’d fuck to that one. Nice, slow beat”.He moves his hips again, and Jaskier watches the shape of his thighs change as he spreads them out on the concrete steps. “That’s…surprising. Color me surprised. And now I have to ask: what other songs of mine that you apparently pretend to hate would you fuck to?”“I don’t know,” and it’s Geralt’s turn to take a pull on the cig, “try me.””—(toss) a coin for your thoughts, oh alley of plenty (or whatever @sp_oops said)
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: (wednesday night interlude) [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1908286
Comments: 14
Kudos: 140





	fuck it, i’m not here to judge (fuck it, i’m not here to love)

**Author's Note:**

> if you’ve seen this before, no you haven’t <3

“You wanna fuck?”

The set’s over and the alley stinks with cigarette smoke. Bone-weary, the two of them slump against the back door, legs stretched out over candy wrappers, aborted, empty joints, a dug-out tube of lipstick.

It’s Jaskier, of course, who asks the question. Adrenaline still lingers in the sweat drying sticky on his forehead. Geralt takes a fair amount of time to respond, enough for Jaskier to take a good long suck on the cig.

“Why?”

The laugh Jaskier attempts is more of a groan. He’s tired. “Why not? People fuck all the time, you know. Someone fucking in the corner when I did Fishmonger’s Daughter.”

Around them, the night lies heavy and thick. Jaskier’s not sure if the low sound Geralt draws out of his belly is a chuckle or something dirtier. He shifts his position a little, rolls his hips out. “I’d fuck to that. Nice, slow beat”.

He moves his hips again, and Jaskier watches the shape of his thighs change as he spreads them out on the concrete steps. “That’s…surprising. Color me surprised. And now I have to ask: what other songs of mine that you apparently _pretend_ to hate would you fuck to?”

“I don’t know,” and it’s Geralt’s turn to take a pull on the cig, “try me.”

Jaskier does as he’s told.

“Ballad of the White Wolf?”

“Sure.”

“Her Sweet Kiss?”

“Sure.”

A pause. “…Toss a coin to your—?”

Geralt takes a quick breath. “Tossed off to that one enough, I think,” he says, and doubles over laughing.

Jaskier, stunned, watches the seams of Geralt’s jacket stretch and strain over the spread of his shoulders. “You fucker," he scolds him, snatching the cigarette from his hands to take a filthy long drag.

“It’s my only joke.”

He’s lying. “You’ve got at least two other ones. Better than that one, too.”

Geralt snorts, drags a hand across the bridge of his nose and then reaches for the cigarette. “They’re all shit,” he sighs, “now give that back.”

Once obliged, it takes him a while to say anything else. Jaskier is nothing if not patient, somnolent, a touch aroused.

“Would you really fuck someone out here?”

The phrasing is ambiguous enough; Jaskier can do nothing but shrug. “Yeah. Feel fuckin’ stupid about it later, but yeah.”

He watches as Geralt sucks thoughtfully on what’s left of the cigarette, reaches to take a last pull for himself and hopes Geralt will look as he blows a whispery ring of smoke. He knows his cheeks don’t hollow as much as they used to but his lips are still lush.

“Would you?” he prompts, handing the cig back, “fuck out here?”

The answer he receives is swift and firm. “No. Maybe a handjob though.”

The way Geralt’s legs fall open after he closes his mouth is tempting. Jaskier can just make out the bulge in the dim light and shamelessly drinks it in. He’s only seen Geralt’s dick a couple of times; it’s monstrous and thick and the head is kind of purpley. Would probably fit well in his fist.

“You want a handjob?” he asks, turning to look Geralt in the face. Geralt doesn’t return the favor.

“Who wants a handjob?” he puffs again on the cigarette, taps the ash off into the gutter, “no one _wants_ a handjob. You just get one. And wish you were getting blown the whole time.”

Jaskier huffs, and pretends he isn’t right.

They sit in silence for a while, watching the light creep up on the skyline in soft washes of gray. The cigarette has finally worn out its welcome, and Geralt drops the butt into a puddle of street spit, to keep company with a condom wrapper.

“You alright?”

Jaskier’s not quite sure. He’s been willing his hand to take up residence on Geralt’s thigh for the past five minutes, to run his thumb up the seam of his jeans, but the hour in which the action would resonate is quickly coming to its end.

“Yeah, fine,” he finally settles, “Kinda hungry. Bar’s probably still open, if you want to go.”

Geralt shakes his head, relaxing into the hollow of the doorframe. “No, I’ve got food at the hotel. Bread and shit; cherry vodka.”

Laughing, Jaskier pulls himself up onto his feet, unsticks the denim from the backs of his thighs. “Fuck that,” he wobbles on stiff ankles, “I’ve got [some Polish shit](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Goldwasser), s'got gold flakes in it, I'll bring that. Bring glasses too, if you want.”

Geralt hums again, that low-lying chuckle that vibrates in his chest, and reaches for Jaskier’s hand. It’s not easy to pull him up—Jaskier’s not quite got his balance yet and Geralt's just as heavy as he looks. When he stumbles onto his feet and into Jaskier’s shoulder the weight knocks them back into the brick.

“Easy, easy you brute,” he chides with a hand on Geralt’s back. If it’s a tease, it’s a weak one. Any real venom had died under the heat of Geralt’s chest, the rise and fall of his belly as he breathed. As close as he’d loomed while Jaskier’d been playing the set—and really, even for security, he hovers—it feels like they’ve been working up to this all night. 

“You going to call a cab?”

Geralt’s yawning into his arm. Jaskier is afraid to move but does so anyway. “Um,” he fumbles in his pocket with his free hand, “yeah, just give me a minute.”

In the time it takes him to get his oversized iPhone out of his tiny pocket, Geralt has pulled out his Motorola and dialed a number. While it rings, he rights himself and throws Jaskier a slick look.

“Upgrade your fucking phone, asshole,” is Jaskier’s response, and he’s hit by a wave of chill as Geralt moves away. His jacket he picks up from where he’d tossed it earlier, pulling it around his shoulders and the collar close around his neck.

Now lurking near the mouth of the alleyway, Geralt flips him off, enunciates the address into the phone, and swiftly hangs up. “If I need some fancy shit,” he gestures to the shine of Jaskier’s cell, “I’ll just use yours.”

“If I’m around,” Jaskier says. It’s a spiteful thing but Geralt doesn’t seem to notice. Or maybe he doesn’t care. Hard to tell.

“You’ll be around.”

He’s looking Jaskier in the face, the shadow of a dimple in his right cheek. Kissing him, Jaskier imagines, must be like swallowing a cigarette—bitter, a little burnt. He wants to do it anyway.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, tucking his hands into the pockets of his coat, “Yeah I'll be around.” 

**Author's Note:**

> the witcher + partynextdoor + old fic i wanted to repurpose = the worst au i wish I never thought of. thanks for reading anyways xx


End file.
